People Of The Mist
by Kpasa
Summary: Men and women are lying dead at Hamunaptra, important archaeological items are missing. These items could mean the rebirth of a greater and more terrifying evil. Ardeth falls in love with the only woman who can help him. But she's in love with Jonathan.
1. Authors Note

**Title**: _People of the Mist_

**Disclaimer**: _I do not own 'The Mummy' or 'The Mummy Returns'; they belong to_

_Stephen Sommers. The only characters that belong to me are the characters_

_that the reader will not recognize._

**Summary**: Unknown men and woman are lying dead at Hamunaptra, important

archaeological items are missing. These items could mean the

the rebirth of a greater and more terrifying evil. The only clues left behind are

mysterious messages written in ancient Celtic and Ardeth Bey finds himself

with memories of a past life. His search leads him to England, to the

O'Connell's. Luckily they know someone who can interpret and solve the

riddles. She is a beautiful and mischievous woman from Ireland who has many

ghosts in the closet. Her past life is intertwined with Ardeth's, and he find

himself instantly falling for her. However there is one problem---

---She's in love with Jonathan.

**A/N**

Please do not be confused by my use of ancient Irish tribes in this story. I know there is very little connection between Egypt and Ireland, but I have created quite a plausible one. I am not going to dwell too long on the subject of Ireland, as I don't think my readers need to know the entire history. I have to do so I can give a general background of one of the main characters. My research on these tribes was very limited, and I'm sure the time frames are all out of proportion. I was even worse trying to depict ancient Egypt. However please bear with me and forgive me for any mistakes I have made. Comments are appreciated, and I deal well with criticism. However I do get the occasional reviewer who doesn't even read the story and immediately flames me. If I do have spelling errors, please e-mail me. (It's in my profile.) I really hope you enjoy the story, and I would love it if you would review. I'll even thank you individually.

**To my faithful reviewers of the story "A Feeling Untouched"**

Don't worry, it's not dead. I've been a little cruel with my cliff hangers, I apologise. But I was looking back at it, and I realized it was pure crap. There was no structure, the chapters were short, and the switch from scene to scene was laughable. In reality I really hated it. That was the time where I barely put any effort into it. (If you read my other story "The Unfortunate Amulet", you'll understand. That was a terrible story.) So I have decided to re-vamp the entire story between Evelyn and Imhotep and not tear out the story, but add to it so it's a bit more believable. I apologize for not clarifying that earlier. However I am just going to make a list of my very patient reviewers who deserve my thanks.

_**Mists of Emerald, Dixie, Ruse (long time no see,lol), Cherrychan1704, Rainia NyteWolf, Whitedino, JewelBlossom, Yuko, Mistress of Mordor, Nelys1(boom!), Catalina Tavington, Fan of the Mummy, Kikichu, BloodCalling13, Andromache, Jay, Xoulblade, IvoryDragon, Wolflady, Mrs. Ardeth Bey, Sadistic Shadow, Happyemily, Ziel, Indyfan, Toni Isis, Your Worshipfulness, Nefertirioc, Relena the vampire slayer, DiMoNdJeWeL, Laraeliae Black, RoyalTearDrop, Dracori, Daydreamer505, Nakhti, TheBabyPhatPrincess, Marcher, Dawn1, HellsCrimsonAngel, Jessie McDonald, Sk8ergirl2 and Tunguska.**_

If I forgot anyone, please notify me.

Enjoy _**"People of the Mist."**_

From a Friend.


	2. Story of Fog

Prologue:

(_Beforehand, I would just like to comment this scene in Ireland does not set the future scenes in the story. It will mostly be centered in England and in Egypt. There is little evidence of actual existence of the tribes I am mentioning. These are compressed versions of Irish mythology. Whether or not these tribes actually existed, tales always have some semblance of truth. I know there were plenty of Celtic tribes, but these were probably the early ones, if in fact they existed. Unfortunately for historians and archaeologists, these ancient tribes rarely left any evidence, written or otherwise, to prove their existence. )_

Ancient Ireland

Her pale dainty feet treaded softly against soft moss, her toes clenching into it with each step. Wisps of stark branches stroked her cheek as she nimbly crept over a log, very aware of the danger nearby. The foliage was like an enchantment, numbing her mind as only a few rays of sun escaped the net of leaves and splashed gaily onto the mystic ground, entrenched in a canopy of velvet green. Its beauty barely affected Sorcha; she knew only one thing on that brisk day, she was in mortal danger.

Earlier, while trying to make an unsuccessful attempt to scavenge for nest eggs in undoubtedly (In Sorcha's mind) the largest tree ever to nourish from this land, was the first time she heard the voices. They came to her like music, contrasting greatly against the peaceful lull of the wood. They were foreign, she knew that for sure.

Using the blood of the land to guide her, Sorcha had no worries about direction. She could feel the soil throbbing along with her heartbeat, they were one. She was engrained in this land like the etchings on her fingertips. Through the glimpses of branches Sorcha could see the sea in which both the goddesses Dubh Lacha and Cliodna reigned. The sun was disappearing like a haze, falling into the jaws of another dying day. The mist and fog were rolling in from the East, giving the trees a deathly silhouette against a grey ocean. Her thigh-length red hair was tangling up in the branches, and she immediately started to braid it with thin leather straps weaving through her hair. Sorcha wished she had brought her brother's iron sword with her, for the protection she now knew she would need. But she was barely a woman, only 13 moons. Her arms would immediately collapse from the strain of such a weapon, reserved for the most advanced male Celtic warrior. Instead she opted for a small knife, used mainly for skinning small rodents if one is camping out. Now Sorcha pulled the knife out from the sheath attached to her roped leggings and crouched low, aware that she was arriving closer and closer to the smoke and the foreign voices she had heard passing while hiding in the far recesses of the dark giant tree. All she wanted to see right now was one tiny peek, something she could tell her father. She and her brothers were always competing for subjects that would grab their father's attention. Who were these mysterious strangers? Sorcha had very little clue. Whenever a tribe comes to Ireland, a battle usually ensues. She and her siblings were the direct result of this.

_**A.N.**_

_I apologize for this next scene if you find it too boring, but I do need to set a background for Sorcha's existence. I promise I won't get too detailed with the history of Ireland, and this setting only occurs for a tiny piece of the story. _

_Her father, her smile lit up when she thought of him, was from the tribe of the Fir Bolg, an ancient tribe that descended from the Nemedians. Many, many moons before, the tribes of the Fir Bolg had left from Ireland and arrived in Greece, only to find themselves in a horrible predicament; slavery. The Greeks had enslaved them and the Fir Bolg were forced to endure many years of servitude. But their will and their spirits surpassed their obedience, and eventually escaped from Greece in boats made from the very leather they used to carry earth in._

_Sorcha remembered how her father, Coinneach, exhausted from a hard day's work of fishing in the sea of the Undines, would sit tiredly in front of the hearth and pull Sorcha and her slightly older brother Conán into his giant arms and wrap them up in the musky scent of his shirt. He would fondly recollect his thoughts and explain to them how once five brothers named Slainge, Rudraige, Gann, Genann and Sengann travelled from Greece, and how the south-west wind separated them into three parts; The Fir Bolg, the Fir Domnann, and the Fir Gaileon. They were spread across Ireland, but were soon reunited to form another, greater civilisation. _

_Her father's people were a dark tribe, a shadowy existence. Their skin shone a pale translucent alabaster, and their dark curly hair emerged from their heads like a black flame. They were generally quite short, their extra flesh due partly to the nature of the cold crashing of the waves and the lack of sun in this cold land. Their eyes shone like the darkest depths of the pale grey ocean. Stormy bluish grey that was tinged and sparkled with the colour of rain in the womb of a cloud. The Fir Bolg lived a quiet, peaceful existence, until the fated battle of Magh Tuiredh –The Plain of Props - occurred. It was then they encountered for the first time the magical and mystical Tuatha Dé Danann. People said that they had arrived on clouds and ships from the Northern Isles, and possessed great power. They believed they were from the Goddess Danu, and they were forced to circle Ireland nine times before arriving at Sliabh an Iarainn, the Iron Mountains. It was here they first encountered the Fir Bolg. They descended upon Ireland like furious storm, and the Fir Bolg were in amazement that they had to actually defeat these god-like beings. A great battle ensued, and it wasn't long until the Tuatha Dé Danann defeated the Fir Bolg, who was a people of the land, not of war. _

_However, the future existence between two cultures was not entirely an uncomfortable one. The Fir Bolg eventually learned to respect and admire their invaders, though their tribes lived as far away from each other as possible. They would respect each other from afar, but they would have little to do with each other. The Fir Bolg went on living peacefully and quietly, occasionally wondering in curious awe about the Tuatha Dé Danann. _

_They were tall and willowy, fair and bright-eyed. They provided no physical attraction to the Fir Bolg, who preferred their own dark-eyed men and women. Their skin was tanned from a long absent sun, and their hair was streaked with the brightest hues of the halo of colours that emerge after a rainy day. They were slender and graceful, more apt to living on a cloud then a harsh countryside. It other words, they were considered as close to Gods as mortals could get. _

_Many years passed of this peaceful coexistence, and Sorcha's father, a young lad at this time, knew he was destined to marry a fisherman's daughter. Instead he received a different prize all together. He often told Sorcha, Conán, and their older warrior brothers of that fateful day where he met the most perfect vision of his life… their mother. Coinneach told them how when he woke up, his heart told him that his life was going to change forever. This knowledge thrummed in his veins and his heart quickened in confused anticipation. He and his own father were walking back from a hard day's work, when suddenly he had this strange urge to travel deep into the forest. He could hear someone calling him, though his father seemed oblivious. He told his father to continue on, and Coinneach began to travel towards the wood. He traveled unaware of where he was going, but the further he went the more desperate he was to reach the centre of the forest. His heart was pounding, as he later recounted to his children, but when he first laid eyes on the angel of the mossy ground, his heart burst with peace and love. _

_A tall and slender woman, with skin like honey and hair like the sinking red sun of a dying day, lay sleeping comfortable on a bed of moss and leaves. Forest critters had dispersed immediately after hearing the snaps of twigs from the mortal's feet and instead watched at a cautious distance. Coinneach was sure that his loud presence could wake anyone from the dead, but upon closer inspection he realized that the woman who only from a glance owned his heart was not sleeping, but rather unconscious. A cut on her forehead and the tears in her dirty dress (a material he considered cut from the clouds) told him she was either in danger or was lost. She was unlike any of the Fir Bolg women, so he concluded that this willowy woman whom hadn't said a word must be from the Tuatha Dé Danann. Here he was, all the while thinking that people from this tribe were god-like and immortal, she must be more human then they all thought. This idea gave him hope, though he shoved it away in the far recesses of his mind. He picked her near weightless body and held her close to his own brawny body, tough from years of hard labour. He trudged on, aware only of the rise and fall of woman's chest, relieving him of the fact that she could be dead. _

_He brought her back to his father's thatched cabin, and laid her down in front of the fire in the eyes of his awed family. His mother had quickly broken the silence and took charge, bathing the stranger's cuts and rubbing her shoulders for extra warmth. The womenfolk clucked their tongues and his sisters cradled her head in the warmth of their robes. Coinneach stood in the shadows of the doorway, realizing that his presence at the moment was not welcome. Uncomfortable with how the woman made him feel with these new unexpected emotions, he left outside into the dusky night. Maybe she was a sorceress, if she could do this to him without saying a word. All his life he led quietly, knowing he would marry dutifully and responsibly. He never though he would feel like this. The next morning she had awoken, confused and frightened. Coinneach was away in the nearest fishing villages, quenching the curious statements of the local fishermen. The woman had woken to the welcoming smiles of a dozen or so dark haired women of the Fir Bolg. She instantly felt at home. They spent all morning trying to converse in the limited broken knowledge of each others languages, unable to learn how she arrived in the forest but they were able to ascertain the woman's name; Caoimhe._

_Late that night, when Coinneach arrived home, was when destiny turned its wheel. He opened the door revealing a woman sitting in front of the hearth, the flames illuminating the fire in her hair. Without a word they locked eyes, and found each other. A week later Coinneach and Caoimhe went to the nearby village and pronounced their upcoming marriage. At first there was anger, the Fir Bolg and the Tuatha Dé Danann were meant to live side by side, not together. But after seeing the two look into each others eyes, they realized not even social thoughts could change this union. So they welcomed Caoimhe into their homes, treating her like a daughter and teaching her the ways of their hard-working lives. Caoimhe herself kept quiet about her life with the Tuatha Dé Danann, and if it weren't for her foreign features and broken words then one would never differentiate her from the Fir Bolg. Caoimhe and Coinneach celebrated their love by having many children together. They had 8 sons, 3 of whom were more inclined to live like their father and be fishermen, 4 who preferred the life of Celtic warriors. One son, Conán, was neither. He wanted to explore the world and rather then wanting to dominate it, he wanted to learn about it. Caoimhe loved all her sons, but she felt truly complete when her last child came into this world. It was her daughter, the whimsical Sorcha. _

_All of Caoimhe's sons had inherited the dark features of their father, but Sorcha was a different kind all together. She had the slender, willowy body of her mother, and the same blood red hair that connected the two. However she did inherit the pale pearl skin of her father's people, and the clashing blue and grey eyes that claimed she was still part of the ocean. One look at her daughter, and Caoimhe knew that her daughter would leave a fated life. She would whisper to Sorcha in the wee hours of the night of their fate._

"_My dear daughter, you and I share the same kind of destiny. Live with it and be grateful."_

_Caoimhe knew that her daughter was different, and set out to teach her the healing ways used by the Tuatha Dé Danann. Some called it sorcery, others called it science. But this knowledge and Sorcha's strange features immediately set her apart from every one else, and she realized that she would never be accepted fully anywhere. The other children growing up had mocked her and called her a witch, but she knew her mother's people were not evil. Life was simple enough for her however. Her older brothers except for Conán moved on with their lives and had either become married or had joined some political movement for the unrest in war torn lands. Sorcha lived life helping and learning from her mother, but that didn't prevent her from helping her father in the sea. __She loved the ocean, it's rolling heaving waves beckoned to her, and she wished she would wake up and be a fish, diving into its deepest depths. She could hear the goddess Dubh Lacha call her, and the ocean was her greatest desire. Sorcha loved to run along the sea banks, trying to touch the grey sky with her fingertips. She may not be accepted by her people, but the land would caress her and love her always. She was as much part of the land as the white-tipped seagulls were to the white heaving cliffs that lay victim to the waves. Sorcha loved her family and she loved her life here. What could be better?_

* * *

Sorcha continued along the trail the foreigners had left behind, her hands clinging to her dagger. All she wanted was a peek, she had told herself. Her mother always admonished Sorcha for her curiosity, and always claimed that it would gain her daughter nothing but trouble. The seagulls in the distance were screaming for their latest prey, and didn't notice the girl entombed in the forest beyond. Sorcha could smell the smoke of a campsite, and the instant she heard voices she dropped as low as she could and peeked through the branches. 

There they were; a group of bearded men of all ages laughing and drinking, but their eyes held a serious hue. Their features were unlike any she had seen. Their skin was tanned but their hair was dark. Their language was foreign and strange to Sorcha's ear, and she knew they must be from far away. Why had they come? One look around proved they didn't have the military supply to launch a war, and though they had weapons Sorcha felt it was more for defence and protection then for attacks. They were circled around a blazing fire, so close that Sorcha was surprised that their clothes didn't get singed. The clothing was odd too, built more for warmer weather. Where was their fur? If one was to survive in these Northern lands, then one had to know how to skin animals for warmth. Instead they were all huddled under layers of robes, obviously not used to this weather. They were on a mission, but for what purpose? Sorcha leaned further; unaware of the stacks of weaponry in front of the bush she was oh so gracefully crouching behind. She pushed away some leaves, and with that the weapons clattered to the ground. The men instantly were on their feet, and Sorcha jumped up in surprise. She locked eyes fearfully on the eyes of the nearest man, one whom she suspected to be the leader. As her face whitened considerably, she turned around and bolted. Instantly the men gathered their things and went after her. They were halted by their leader. In a foreign tongue he gave his orders.

"Leave her; we know where she is headed. She is a good choice, young but beautiful. She is the one we want. We don't want to frighten her away by running after her."

The foreign men hurriedly packed their items and washed away the remaining embers. They grabbed their horses, and began to follow the trail the girl had not bothered to cover.

Sorcha was only aware that her heart was going to pound out of her chest if she ran any harder, but she must make it home. She felt that the men were no longer chasing her, however she needed to get to her father since her presence was now known. Branches and twigs clawed at her as she ran by, tearing her clothes. She could heal the scratches at home, she knew, but now she needed to get there. The forest, usually her friend, was now dark and gloomy as night was falling. Sorcha could see lights in the distance, and began to run towards it. As she broke out of the woods, she could see her thatched house illuminating against the dusky ocean. She ran straight through the hen house and ignored the fire scalding her lungs. She burst through the door and quickly gasped against it, her chest heaving. Caoimhe looked up from where she was tending the fire and quickly picked up her skirts and went to her daughter.

"Sorcha! Whatever it the matter? Why are you so dirty?"

Sorcha buried herself in her mother's arms and tried to calm her panicked heart.

"There were men, mama, strange men! They were foreigners, and they had weapons with them, but I don't think they are warriors."

"What? Daughter, please, calm down."

"I can't, they know I was there. I think their going to come after me."

Caoimhe felt a small smile tug at her lips. Sorcha was always very imaginative, and loved to tell stories.

"And why, oh dear daughter, do you think they will come after you?"

Sorcha let out a great sob along with her answer.

"Because! Because the way one of the men looked at me. As though I were an answer to some problem. I feel it in my heart, that they want something from me. Mama, I know this sounds strange, but it feels like destiny just slapped me in the face."

Caoimhe paled visibly and clutched at her daughter. She instantly believed her, because she had felt the same thing the day she had left the Tuatha Dé Danann in search for her destiny. She bundled up her skirts, open the door, and cried out to the nearby fishermen on their breaks to go and fetch her husband. Sorcha clutched at her and they sat down against the heat of the fire, Caoimhe wiping the tear-streaked dirty face of her daughter and began to untangle the mass of hair ringing Sorcha's face.

Suddenly the door burst open and Caoimhe instantly got up to greet her husband. However, this was not Coinneach; this was a strange foreign man, wild-eyed and serious. Sorcha cried out and hid behind her mother in recognition. It was the leader of the band of foreigners. He looked around the room briefly before locking in on Sorcha. He looked at Caoimhe and talked to her in the broken language of the Fir Bolg.

"She is the one."

* * *

Some pronunciations of the names:

Caoimhe --- KEE va (meaning beauty or grace)

Coinneach --- CON yach (meaning sorrowful)

Conán --- KUN awn (meaning hound or wolf)

Sorcha --- SUR a ka (meaning bright or radiant)

**I would just like my readers to know that I will be switching from past lives to present lives of the characters.**


	3. Discovery

Chapter 1: Present Day

(A/N: _I hope you know when I mean present day I actually mean the present of the setting of the movies, so around 1920's to 1930's._)

His eyes were closed in thoughtful concentration as his body stood rigid to the light breeze flowing through the endless plains of sand. It was a calm day, but Ardeth Bey felt a dark premonition wrap its iron fist around his heart. Something horrible had happened; it was as if the wind was whispering its fated plans into his ear. His black Arabian stallion stood beside him, shifting uncomfortably as he noticed the Medjai leader's tense body. Ardeth's black robe was swaying slightly in the uncommon light wind, and the bone in his jaw clenched considerably in deeper thought. He was standing above the dunes, his body facing the rising sun. Ardeth was so intent on his concentration he hardly noticed the body of a second figure clambering up the sand dune. However a leader is always trained to be aware of his or her surroundings, and must always be on guard. No less then five steps away Ardeth whirled around to face his second-in-command, Sefu, also a good friend of years of growing up together. Sefu was panting considerably, and the day's heat was noticeably affecting him. He had obviously been in a rush to see his leader, and Ardeth could see Sefu's horse's body glistened with sweat. Sefu straightened up, calmed his body, and faced his leader.

"Look, at your horse, Sefu," said Ardeth calmly, irritated by his broken thoughts, "What news do you bring to cause such urgency to your beast?"

Sefu took a breath of air before replying.

"I've come in the utmost haste, old friend, Hamunaptra has been disturbed."

"What! What do mean, I posted ten sentries out there! What has happened?"

Sefu wore a look of utter bewilderment.

"I'm afraid I have no response to that. The men under my post watched the City of the Dead vigilantly last night, but when the sun awoke our youngest guard, Pili, noticed some figures lying between the boulders. Well sir, I think this is something you need to see for yourself."

Ardeth brushed by him without saying a word, and swung himself up onto his horse. He clicked his tongue and with a kick of his booted leg the stallion took off, leaving Sefu to tend to his horse. The usually scarce wind rushed by Ardeth as he urged his horse to go faster. His responsibility was to protect the city of the dead, if he failed his duty yet again he would never be able to forgive himself. As he neared closer and closer to the city, he felt dread creep into his heart. Ardeth spurred his horse onto a nearby cliff, impatient to see what had happened. As they arrived to the edge, the world seemed to stop. His stallion stood motionless, aware that his master was in a dire mood. Ardeth stood tall upon the saddle, his stoic face impassive. In the distance he could see his men, black figures outshining the dull sand, move cautiously around the city, awaiting their leader. Hamunaptra itself was a ruined city, ever since that day his good eastern friends defeated Imhotep and killed him. But he could see other figures, not dressed in the Medjai robes; they were on the ground motionless. Ardeth reigned in his horse and galloped towards his men, his eyes on the figures.

As he neared closer and closer, his heart clenched with pity and with confusion. He could make out the bodies of at least 6 bodies, their hands clutching at thin air. His men who were aware that their leader was in sight had moved out of the way respectively. When he arrived to the spot Ardeth swung off his horse, and handed the reigns to the nearest Medjai, his eyes never leaving the figures.

There was still an eerie quiet, after years of mummification and death this site would always be engraved with ghastly memories. The boulders, still magnificent with their size, lay upturned like gateways. Ardeth knew that though the statues and pillars that glorified Hamunaptra was now forever destroyed; underneath it lay centuries worth intricate tunnels, fascinating hieroglyphics and thousands of memories. Imhotep, his priests and his lover were still in there, along with bodies of the not so fortunate when he was re-incarnated. Ardeth knew that the mountains of gold still lay in their useless glory, glinting in their darkness. He moved beyond the overturned pillars and statues, stepping over pieces that had once enshrined a magnificent city. He stepped over to the first body, a man of about 60. The first thing Ardeth noticed was the train of pure white beard, and then the fact that this man was obviously from either European or North American descent due to his pale skin, stretched like smoked leather due to his death. His eyes screamed in terror, and his mouth lay open in horror. However after a quick yet thorough examination of the body, Ardeth could not conclude the cause of death. He stepped around the body silently, and walked by the other victims. Their positions were the same as the elderly man, and the expressions on their face looked like they met a grisly death, but he could not see where pain was actually inflicted. Their ages were an odd mixture, and only two were women. Some of the men were boyish and youthful, whereas some were more serious and distinguished. Only two were women, and as far as he could tell they looked like complete opposites. One was a mousy looking woman, very young but had an aura of strength to her despite her small size. The other was a middle-aged beauty, ravishing despite her obvious attempts with makeup to achieve immortal youthfulness. She clutched onto her silver brooch like a weapon, defending against what, though? Ardeth nodded his head to the side for one of the men to come over. A young man, eager to prove himself to his leader, walked quickly over to him. Ardeth barely glanced over at him. This must be Pili, Ardeth thought, though he seemed more child then man.

"What do we know?" said Ardeth, gazing throughout the ruins.

"Well, sir, some of the other men and I were on watch all night, and we would of…"

"Yes, yes I know," interrupted Ardeth, "you watched all night and the next morning the bodies appeared suddenly. I'm in doubt as to the extent of your vigilance last night, but I will take your word for it. What else do we have?"

Pili shifted uncomfortably, not sure how to articulate his response.

"That's the thing, sir, there's nothing else. There was no campsite, no evidence that anyone even passed through here. There wasn't much of a wind last night, so we thought we would at least see footprints or at least a scuffle. But the sand looks untouched."

Ardeth thought deeply, hiding his furiously confused thoughts behind a mask of nonchalance.

"Did you check their person? Pockets? I am fully aware that the European victims of ours usually take to wearing wallets. There must be some identification or even a slip of paper describing anything."

Pili swallowed, his urge to please his leader dampened by his lack of information. Ardeth was usually a well-tempered man, but when it included a failure to defend his duty of protecting Hamunaptra, he could become quite irate. He turned and stared his impatiently at Pili. When did they start bringing children out to the desert? Initiation involved much more maturity then this. He didn't even have one tattoo yet. Luckily for Pili one of the elder Medjai, a kind, wise man named Baniti, stepped up and saved the boy.

"I'm afraid, my leader, that it appears these bodies have appeared out of thin air. We found no identification and nothing to indicate what has happened. Please do not lash out at Pili; he knows no more then any of the rest of us."

Ardeth was staring beyond his warriors, fully listening to this man he much respected. Something caught his eye, a space between the fallen pillars. He turned back to Baniti and Pili.

"Of course, old friend, the confusion of this is getting to me. It was most likely some bandits, though they cleaned up after themselves pretty well. However I do not believe that they have left us as yet, I believe they are still here, in the City of the Dead."

He placed a comforting, almost father-like hand on Pili's shoulder. But he spoke to all his men.

"Try to look away from the obvious, look over there between the pillar and the fallen statue of Horus. Do you not see the space between them? It is a perfect doorway to enter the City of the Dead. We would have made sure something like that would have been covered up. Perhaps our bandits our hiding in there, waiting for us to leave."

Pili stared numb, cursing at himself for his blindness. Baniti and some of the older Medjai stood doubtfully, their tattooed-ridden faces etched in with caution. They had personally stayed up all night keeping watch, they would have been aware of tragic deaths like these. Ardeth was obviously aware of this, but he did not want to raise concern for a fruitless effort. With a nudge from Baniti, it was Pili who was leading the way to the makeshift entrance, taking pride in his elder's acknowledgement. As a general rule, only 10 of the Medjai entered Hamunaptra, the others to stand guard outside. With their weapons raised, they stepped into the ancient city, the aura already polluted by their presence.

Ardeth felt that he was forced to crouch low, all the while grimacing at his repressed memories flooding his mind. The last time, as he recalled, that he was in one of these passages, he was essentially fighting for his life by scarab ridden mummies. By the will of Allah, he thought with a grim mind, how many other people had to face dead priests and an angry man bent on ruling the world in their lifetimes? Only a select few as he fondly reminisced on the now wedded O'Connell's, and of course Jonathan. Ardeth longed to see them again, though he never got to know them too personally. They were a pleasing group of people, and despite Evelyn's unfortunate tendency to wake the dead, he found himself missing their company. Ardeth would also have liked to meet their five year old son, Alex. Mainly out of his sick curiosity to witness the outcome of when two complete opposites attract. But now was hardly the time to reminisce. His warrior's lives could be in danger, as it was very likely that whoever had caused the damage outside were probably hiding inside. With his weapons raised he trudged on through the musty passage, a sobering mood of thousands of years of death involved. The lights of the torches carried by the Medjai ahead made the hieroglyphics on the wall glisten in their trapped ancient letterings, nobody to read them for centuries passed.

It was pure silence, his men, whom were skilled in the art of war, made no sound though they leaned heavily on the sand. Strange sounds swept passed them, but Ardeth knew they were the sounds of the wind whistling through the entrances. His main fears were of bandits, and of scarabs. In fact, he was more worried about the scarabs then the supposed bandits. At least humans make easier targets. However Ardeth's sharp ears did not miss the gasp emitted from Baniti at the front of the line, and he quickly sidestepped his way to see what the occurrence was. Once he joined Baniti he understood immediately. On what would be considered an ordinary wall was deliberately and carelessly smashed through, an archaeologist's worst nightmare. But it wasn't the brutal rape of thousands of years of history that had bothered Ardeth, it was what was behind the ruined wall that nearly made his heart explore. Or ore likely, the lack of.

"Good God, no." Ardeth whispered to himself in the English tongue, horror possessing his body.

* * *

**Second of all, to my reviewers:**

**The kid mdd**: _lol, well, sorry about that. I had some issues with the internet so I couldn't upload until the next day, but thank you for commenting. Lol, by your review I guess your not a Jonathan lover, well, I hope I'll get you to like him a little bit later on._

**Johnnycarnhahan**: _well, I can see that you're definitely a Jonathan lover, which is a good thing because not a lot of people do. You'll have to wait and see who she ends up with but don't worry cause I'm going to give Jonathan a lot more, humanization, lets say, but I do love him because I think he's hilarious. I've always liked the stories of when the girl ends up with the brave strong man, but at the same time I have also always liked it when the girl ends up with the funny guy, not the main character._

**And finally,**

**dawn1**: _I can't tell you enough how much I appreciate your reviews. You've been very faithful especially with my other story. It makes me so happy that you review and it means a lot to me. _


	4. A Christmas Carol

Chapter 2: A Christmas Carol

_(A/N: Still in present time, but I'm pretty sure anyone could figure that out. This next scene does little to move the story along, but I did want have some fun with the O'Connell's.)_

"Here's a little Q and A, where the hell are we?"

Rick O'Connell stared in pure, unadulterated disgusted horror as his gaze traveled from one end of the room to the other. What he saw before him made him almost wish he were back at Hamunaptra, defending himself once again against dozens of crawling mummies. Rick tugged uncomfortably at his tie, and for the life of him couldn't loosen it. He bent down and whispered with his out-placed American accent in his beautiful wife's shell of an ear.

"Do we honestly have to be here?"

Evelyn had her hands clasped in front of her heart, her eyes shining with adoration. She looked as though she were about to cry. She barely even noticed her giant of a husband beside her, but answered the same thing she said every time they went somewhere he didn't want to be.

"Just give it a chance, darling. You'll learn to love it. Otherwise someone will be sleeping on the couch tonight, and one guess who that will be."

Rick immediately straightened up, and did his utmost to hide the grimacing scowl behind his boyish face. But one more look around the room, and he knew he'd definitely be sleeping on the couch tonight. It was absolutely disgusting. It was an explosion of green and red, of glitter and of Christmas decorations. The much overused Santa Claus figurines were centred in each section of the room, and reindeer plastered over every single inch of wall space. The reindeer looked traumatized, and about a dozen 6 year olds were throwing shiny decorations at the Three Kings statues in the corner. Repetitive Christmas carols rung throughout the building, and the wreaths hung from the walls like nooses. To Rick, this was Hell.

They were at The Bowen Elementary Academy for Boys and Girls, and luckily for Rick every year the school would hold a number of Christmas festivities, including plays, songs, everything short of standing in a circle and holding hands. He felt the smell of cookies as someone shuddered a breath in his face. It was his 7yr.old son, Alex. His poor son had no choice to be here, and though he tried to hide behind some girl's back in class, he could not escape his teacher handing him a part in the upcoming Christmas play of the Virgin Mary and the birth of Jesus. Alex was dressed as one of the shepherds, too bad he didn't even look like one. Evelyn, who at the time was so excited about seeing cute children dress up (in reality she was just trying to make Rick more willing to the idea of having more kids) that it completely slipped her mind that she had to create a costume for her son. In fact, it was remembered 20 minutes before they arrived to the doors of the Academy.

Earlier Rick and Evelyn, trying to slip in a few moments of togetherness, was embarrassingly enough interrupted by Alex casually walking into their room, not blinking an eye, and told them outright about his need for a costume. In a frenzy Evelyn ripped off the tacky purple curtains from her own childhood bedroom window and wrapped it around Alex. (She would have used the linens sheet, but we all know about precious family heirlooms, apparently the sheets were an inheritance from a distant millionaire uncle). Then she tore one of the fabric floral placemats from the dining-room table and somehow created a head-scarf. All the while Alex was staring at her with one eyebrow raised, his mouth opened in disgust, and wondering how they were any relation. After one car ride from hell Alex was almost glad to be in the building, but now he sat perched in his father's arms, a grimace consuming his face. As Evelyn greeted other friends and parents, father and son stayed by the exit, they were not willing to lose their single option for escape. Alex looked at his father's expression and sighed.

"Oh, c'mon Dad, you if you think you got it bad, look at me. I look like a bloody peacock."

"Hey, watch your language buddy," said Rick sternly, instantly smothering a smile. British swearwords had yet to take effect on him. "Besides, Peacocks aren't purple."

Alex rolled his eyes.

"You know what I mean," he said as he eyed disgustingly at a girl with angel wings jumping up and down for no particular reason. "I had to practice everyday with these psychopaths. I don't think I'll survive around these blokes any longer. Mum seems to like it enough though."

They both stared at Evelyn, who was exclaiming with the other mothers at their innocent children dress up like most children their age would love to do. Rick had a suspicion that she wished that Alex would still be into this cutesy-cutesy stuff. One look at his son's face, however, and Rick knew there was no hope for Evy.

"Well kid, I guess we should go in."

Alex scrambled out of his father's arms, not wanting the other kids to see how attached he was to his parents. He and Rick walked stiffly over to where Evelyn was shrieking over her friend's engagement ring, and her husband and son both sighed simultaneously. Alex made it over to his mother alright, but halfway Rick himself was ambushed by his son's teacher, Mrs. Petrie. It was as if she had appeared out of the ground, and she nearly tackled Rick. Mrs. Petrie was a heavy set woman, with broad shoulders and a pot belly. She easily matched Rick's height. It was obvious that she was no Mrs., sadly unmarried, but in fact liked the title. She had set her eyes on Rick, and immediately targeted him.

"Why hello there," She crooned as she leaned closer and closer. "And just who might you be?"

The closer she got the further Rick leaned away. When her hand reached up to adjust his tie, he shoved his hand in front of him, shaking hers vigorously.

"Hi, I'm Alex's father, Rick O'Connell. Over there is my wife, Evelyn. She's my spouse of 8 years, actually. Yep, I love her. My wife. We're in love. Had a wedding and everything."

The fact that he was married apparently didn't do anything for Mrs. Petrie. Actually, she seemed to be more attracted by this fact. However she did glance over to where they stood, and blinked as her eyes settled on the purple chaos that is Alex. Evelyn had licked her sleeve and was trying to wipe off a smudge of dirt off of Alex's face with it, ignoring his cringing techniques. The other mothers surrounded him and exclaimed over him, while making slight adjustments to his costume. All the while Alex was slightly twitching his eye, as though a shudder had passed throughout his very soul. Mrs. Petrie turned back to Rick and purred into his ear.

'Well, I can where he got his good looks from." She leaned closer to him.

Rick repressed a look of horrified disgust and immediately his watch seemed to appear out of thin air.

"Isn't it about time for the play to begin, Mrs. Petrie?"

Alex's teacher looked disappointed for only a moment, before finally accepting her fate. She turned her back to Rick and clapped her hands for silence.

"Attention, attention everyone. I must steal the children away from you so that they can prepare for the play. I ask the parents to go find a seat in the auditorium."

Instantly everyone in the room began to shuffle around the room, the more pretentious children began to sing Christmas songs and skip away. Alex groaned dramatically and trudged after them, his own friends stiffly walking beside him. Mrs. Petrie prepared to leave but not before stroking Rick's sleeve and whispering in his ear.

"Well then dear man, do save me a spot under the mistletoe later on."

With a wink of her rolling eyelid, she flourishingly swept herself away, leaving Rick to practically gag. Once he got control of himself, he lifted his eyes to see Evelyn stand in front of him, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. Her heeled toe tapped the ground in patience; silently waiting for an answer to the scene she had just witnessed. Rick swore silently to himself.

"Couch, here I come." He mumbled under his breath.

Rick stared guilty at his wife.

"Evy, honey, I know I've said this to you so many times in the past, but it's not what it looks like."

Her face didn't even twitch. He continued on.

"I don't even know the woman. C'mon, she doesn't even remotely compare to you."

Rick could see the bone in her jaw clench. He began to actually think she was mad at him.

"Please, Evy. She was just flirting. I wasn't, in fact I really wanted to run away from her!"

Evelyn stared at him in mock anger for a moment or two, before bursting out with laughter. She looked beyond Rick and began to speak.

"Sorry Martha, I couldn't control myself, it was too funny to resist."

Her friend Martha, who was a mother to one of Alex's friends, appeared laughing behind Rick and handed Evelyn a note of money.

"Well, you win the bet."

Evelyn smiled graciously, all the while giggling. She pocketed the money into her purse and looked at her husband, eyelashes batting.

'We bet on how long it would take for you to start to sweat and look worried. But even you have to admit it was funny how she coddled up to you."

It was Rick's turn to look at her impassibly, his eyebrow raised in silent embarrassment. He didn't say a word as Evelyn and Martha linked arms, all the while giggling as they consistently looked back at him. He followed behind them, his hands in his pockets and staring cynically at his vixen wife of his. The three of them entered the auditorium, but the instant they stepped in Evelyn gasped and Martha shrieked as a goateed man dressed like an Elf (plastered in spandex) all of a sudden jumped in front of them, stuck out his tongue, wiggled his ears, and bounced away. It was Rick's turn to laugh. Evelyn glared at him for a moment before resumed looking for a seat. They separated from Martha, and spotted two empty seats in the middle. A row of people in their way stared irate at them, sighing to themselves as they all lifted their knees to let the O'Connell's walk past them. Evelyn was capable of walking by them as graciously as possible, despite her normally clumsy self, whereas Rick was stumbling over each nook and cranny in his way. He kept apologizing to the owners of the feet he kept stepping on, and more then once felt someone with long fingernails stroke his leg and upwards as he walked by. Rick heaved a sigh of relief as he finally plopped down into his seat, only to be greeted by the biggest head of hair in the world blocking his view of the stage.

Currently on the stage were children dressed up like angels and elves hold hands and dancing around an enormous paper tree. The tree was giant, and it almost touched the ceiling. During all the time Rick was trying to think of how they were able to create a paper tree, he didn't see the kids on the stage throwing Christmas goodies and other candies into the audience. Evelyn caught on gracefully and smiled; another one sailed down and mauled Rick in the eye.

"Son of a bitch!" he cried out loud.

Evelyn immediately stared away from him hoping no one would make the connection that they were husband and wife. But she did speak to him quietly under clenched teeth.

"Rick, do be quiet. You cannot swear at a children's play. They're just about to start the play about the birth of Jesus."

Both of them missed the hard rock candy fly through the air. They did, however, both notice how it hit him yet again in the other eye.

"Jesus Christ!" Rick cried out.

Heads swivelled in horror as a few people near them turned their heads towards him. Evelyn tried to shush him and put her finger to her lips. Rick spoke more quietly, but with still the same amount of pain.

"Mother almighty, these kids are vicious."

Evelyn placed a hand to her forehead and sunk lower into her seat. Normally her brother was the one to make a scene, but apparently today Rick decided to bestow upon himself that honour. But the attention on Rick was soon centred away from him as the Christmas plat began. It was cute, yea, if Al Capone had directed it. Acting was obviously not a primary object, and Rick suspected that when the Virgin Mary (acted by a little boy named Henry) was being stoned after the discovery of her pregnancy, the actors were using actual stones. It was a confusing play, and the tree baffled him the most. He leaned down and whispered in Evy's ear.

"Why is the paper tree still there?"

Evelyn stared straight at the stage.

"Just leave it alone, Rick."

"But why is it there? They're in a seedy looking part of Bethlehem, why is there a paper tree in the middle of it all?"

Evelyn plainly ignored him. A woman behind them began to whisper angrily to the man sitting beside her.

"Your bloody father, he should be here. His bloody granddaughter is here performing a play, and he can't even be here. She asked him to be here, but noooo, grandpa just had to be at the pub drinking his way to an early death."

Rick bent his head and drawled in Evelyn's ear.

"Sounds like grandpa had the right idea."

He groaned as his wife elbowed him in the side. The play continued on, and Evy was practically jumping in her chair as Alex and the other shepherds came into scene. If the other actors were bad, they were nothing compared to Alex. He wasn't even trying, just looking bored and being fascinated with his fingernails. Everyone in the audience missed the sly smile twitching at his lips. Though his acting had much to be admired, Rick felt proud of his son. He stared intently at Alex, amazed that the boy on stage was his son. Never in a million years would he have thought of becoming a father. Rick had eyes only for his son. However he did not miss the motion when Alex looked up and towards his friend, who was playing one of the three kings. He barely saw the imperceptible motion of Alex nodding to his pal, but Rick's head swivelled to the king, and dread crept into his heart. Alex and friend (Billy, one of the three kings) began to walk towards the crib that held the baby Jesus. They both, as well, "tripped" at the same time towards the giant paper tree and smashed into it. The paper tree was enormous, and nearly reached the roof. The items that were holding it into position groaned, and began to upturn. Poor Henry, the boy playing the Virgin Mary, clutched onto the tree with all his might and cried out loud.

"Mother of God, nooooo…"

Screams began to fill the auditorium as the tree began to topple over into the audience. The ones in the front stared horrified as they looked up to this falling tree, covering their faces with their arms. Mrs. Petrie ran to the stage crying about the cruelty of it all as the tree finally smashed into the audience. But as it was only paper, it caused very little damage, only a few paper-cuts here and there. Alex was staring at the wreckage, a wry grin of satisfaction curling his lips. Rick and Evelyn stared in horror.

"Oh Alex," they both said with a sigh.

…………………….

Alex was laughing hysterically as they walked up towards their mansion, snowflakes twirling in the night sky, sprinkling their clothes. Rick was doing his best not to burst out laughing, and kept his jaw clenched and his tongue firmly between his own teeth. Evelyn was furious.

"You, young man, are grounded for a month. No, two months. You will march straight up to your room, and I will be there shortly to give you a spanking."

Alex's face instantly dropped. Evelyn swung open the door and pointed to the stairs.

"Go. Right now."

Alex hunched his shoulders and sighed, very much used to this. He trudged through the house and stared innocently at his mother. Evy would not budge. He turned around and climbed quite exaggeratingly upstairs. Evelyn and Rick stared at each other for a moment, before she smacked him up over the head.

"What was that for?"

Evelyn crossed her arms.

"You know he just does this to impress you, and you encourage it because you are the bloody same!"

Rick sighed and ran a coarse hand through his sandy blonde hair. He walked up to Evelyn and pulled her outside in the falling snow. He leaned closer and placed his mouth in the curve of her neck. He breathed softly, his breath playing with the strands of her hair. Rick wrapt his arms around her waist and got as close as possible to her. He whispered silently in her ear.

"You know I'm the same because all I ever want to do is impress you."

He leaned down to kiss her, and shifted his own feet. Doing so, he stepped on a piece of paper lying in front of the door and instantly tripped onto his back. Groaning, he placed a hand to his forehead. How many times was he going to get hurt today? But Evelyn's attention was no longer focused on him; it was now on the paper on the ground. She bent down and retrieved it from the snowy walk, realizing it was a telegram. Rick got up slowly, clutching his aching back. Evelyn opened the telegram, almost excited. She scanned the paper quickly, and then looked up at Rick with confusion.

"It's from Ardeth Bey."

Rick snapped his head towards her.

"Ardeth? What does he want?"

"Well, apparently he wants us to call him at the Mena Oberoi Hotel in Cairo. He said it's urgent."

Rick felt a cold chill tug at his heart.

"Oh, no."

Evelyn pocketed the telegram in her purse. Her brain was switching gears.

"Well, we'll give him a call soon enough. We should get Jonathan; he's just as much of a part of this as we are."

Rick raised an eyebrow.

"Hon, I very much doubt that Ardeth would appreciate Jonathan being there."

But his wife was no longer listening. She was only thinking of questions in her head.

"Where is Jonathan anyway?" she mumbled softly.

* * *

Sorry, I know this chapter had very little to do with moving to the story along, but it was fun to write.

**To my Reviewers**

**Eviefan: **Thank you so much for reviewing, and don't worry, I'll do my best to add Rick and Evy romance in here. Lol, and I'm interested to hear who you think the people that Sorcha found are. Any yes, I do admit I do have a problem with cliffhangers, lol, but its so much fun. Thanks for reviewing!

**Dawn1:** Wow, I really appreciate your reviews. Sorry about the cliffhanger, but I guess we'll have to wait and see what the next chapters reveal. (This chapter doesn't exactly explain a whole lot). But I was really happy getting a review from you, so thanks!

**Johnnycarnahan:** lol, we'll have to wait and see how Jonathan and his love meet. But I'm sure you'll like it. I was really glad to get a review from you, so that made my day, lol. I'm happy that you're excited for the next chapter, so am I. though their consistently getting longer and longer…. Thanks again for your review!


	5. Once Upon a Sleeping Ocean

Chapter 3: Once upon a Sleeping Ocean

Jonathan was surprisingly calm as he flew through the chill air, the wind rushing by him in a drunken roar. The world was spinning and he was drowning in it. He felt the marks of the rough hands stain his body with red streaks. Of course the only question on his mind was why he was suddenly flying. Jonathan landed with a great metal clatter of garbage cans, his numb body ignoring the sharp pains one would normally feel. His ears felt flooded, like he was trapped in a cage of water and could only hear the distant mumbling of far-away voices. The corner of his eye dully caught the glance of a man in a doorway, wearing a waiter's apron and presenting some rather obscene gestures with his angry fist that Jonathan thought dimly that only his nephew Alex would every dare to attempt.

"And stay out, you bloody sod!" cried the furious figure, slamming a metal door behind him.

These words barely sunk into Jonathan's mind as he lay sprawled in an array of foul-smelling garbage bags and empty liquor bottles. Alley cats skulking nearby had shrieked with this sudden commotion and were now eyeing him warily. However his eyesight could only make out the silhouettes of the large buildings of the alley in contrast to the velvet web of night, woven with the faintest of stars. His racing heart calmed, and his head sunk lazily into a rather disgusting pile of garbage with a suspicious smell wafting from its depths. He could hear the laughter emerge from the pub that he was so ceremoniously kicked out. The tinkling noises from the Sherries and other such drinks clinking together within their glass cages instantly calmed Jonathan. He saw a woman's face, his love. The earrings he had bought her had tinkled like tiny bells, reminiscent of the soft noises coming from the building. And her laughter, by god, her laughter must have been threaded with the same silk as an angel's cloth. It was there, amidst the foul stench of garbage, yowls of ribbed cats, and the laughing ringing from the bar, was when Jonathan began to think of her, the very image of her comforting him amongst this city horror, his sweet and unearthly Danu.

**…………**

**13 months before, in Ireland:**

"Jonnie ol'chap, how've you been you sad littl' bugger?"

A strong brawny hand clapped Jonathan on the back, nearly toppling the lean, wiry body of the surprisingly sober Englishman. Jonathan felt two monstrous arms reach out to give him a friendly bear hug. He instantly swivelled around, dropped his bags against the rickety fence of the entrance to the harbour and placed two hands on the giant's shoulders. Jonathan looked at the man seriously, amusement twinkling in the corners of his eyes.

"First things first, me mate. Hug me again, and those gambling lads that you call friends will be the first to know about that hairpiece I saw you fix when I was on the ferry."

Jonathan's friend was speechless for a moment, before heaving a great Liverpool laugh from his brawny chest and shook Jonathan's hand.

"Deals a deal." This man, a 30-something chap named Will, bent down with a huge smile riddling his pockmarked face to help with the luggage. "So seriously, how've you been? England still as bloody prudish as when I left it?"

A smile twitched in the corner of Jonathan's mouth as they began to walk away from the docks.

"As always. I'm jolly good as usual as well. I've escaped my sister's clutches, how do you think I'm feeling?"

Will paused for a moment, his strides slowing as he reflected on Evelyn Carnahan. A dreamy look emerged on his face from the time he last saw her. Jonathan, however, did not miss this.

"Don't be looking like that, Will. Whenever you think 'bout her, just remember the American."

Will grimaced as an image of the strong muscular gun-toting man emerged in his mind. He knew instantly it was time to move on with the conversation.

"Right'o, shall we get a move on then? I've got a hot date with this new pub that's being opened near the harbour on the West side of town. You're coming of course."

Jonathan looked at him sardonically.

"Did you honestly think otherwise?"

Will smiled, a small hint of relief creeping into his eyes.

"Well, you never know now. Do you remember our old buddy Bill, yea? Well, he's after a maid, a very bonny one mind you, but she has her limits. She told him to stop the drink and to get a real job. I just figured, you know, that you might have a lady friend, and…"

Jonathan immediately interrupted him.

"…yea, yea, yea. Trust me Will, the only place I have for women is late at night along one of the avenues near old Frankie's place. I'm having too much fun to even be thinking 'bout a family an' all that."

Will smiled and swung one of the smaller pieces of luggage at Jonathan, whose attempt to catch it was quite clumsy indeed.

"Glad to hear it mate."

Silence descended down upon them as the grey sky shrouded their very thoughts, almost forcing them to hunch down as though the sky were falling. The seagulls from the harbour cawed with great contrast to the silent tide and quiet boats. This space of silence gave Jonathan a chance to reflect on his surroundings. 'So this is Ireland', he thought amusingly to himself. The cobblestone paths he treaded upon were no different then the streets in some of the farming villages in England. The pubs and dockside shops that hunkered beside the cracked street brought him a welcoming feeling, although fully aware that his nationality would not be favourable here. Looking up at the grim sky, he reflected how both countries, though divided by a bitter hatred, essentially shared the same sky. It was a perpetual sadness which consumed the clouds and impregnated them with tears. However although he had seen plenty of oceans in his lifetime, he had never witnessed the sea from here in Ireland. It was like a different being all together, a life force of its own. It sung its own sad melody, and the waves harmonized in a tragic lullaby. Jonathan sighed; he had no idea why he would leave England again. For the past couple of months there was a restlessness stirring in his heart, slowly tightening it like an iron fist. Night after night was spent gambling away his fortune from Hamunaptra and drinking to a numb soul. He shuddered at the thought of mummies, but the weight on his shoulders dissipated when Jonathan thought of his fortune. Though he spent quite a bit of the earnings from the discovered gold, he would still have plenty enough for generations to come, gambling and drinking included. No, he thought quietly, he was searching, aching, for something. A premonition of change hung in Jonathan's frame like a dark shroud. His normally mirth attitude was replaced by a restless eagerness to find whatever it was that he was looking for.

So the lazy afternoon when he received a letter of invitation from his old friend William Darby, he jumped at the chance. Will was working as a temporary engineer for a well-off docking company along the coast of Ireland, but as one of the few Englishmen working there he was finding it difficult to cope. So in a moment of inspiration he invited Jonathan to break away from England for a couple of weeks, and had only one certain event planned for that night. Drinks, gambling, and if they were sober enough, women. Although Jonathan did enjoy his occasional round-a-bouts, these days the thought of being with a strange woman again somehow repulsed him. He shrugged the thought away, he was to damn sober to be his normal self.

**Later that night**

For the fifth time that night, Jonathan felt a pair of hands clapping him on his back just as he was about to take a swig of brandy. His lean body was pushed forward and his drink spilled onto the table. He rolled his eyes cynically and lifted his glass in a half-hearted toast with the group of drunkards who for the past hour roared like sailors, whom many were. Jonathan surveyed his surrounding with a mixture of longing, revulsion, and exhaustion. About thirty other men had joined the two Englishmen that night at the grand opening of Maugham's pub, a smoky and rowdy tavern, and half of them had deemed Jonathan and Will fun enough to have a laugh and a gander with. Half a dozen songs had been sung, and the sweet lilting voices were the only thing that brought comfort to Jonathan's ear. The night should have been perfect, but somehow it felt incomplete. Jonathan sighed and lifted himself from the game of poker he was playing with a few of the more elderly Irishmen, not feeling the will to act like a drunken fool tonight with the younger men. Something was undoubtedly missing.

He lost the poker game good-heartedly and shook hands with the older gents, glad to have talked with them. They had interesting stories to tell, even if some of them were undoubtedly intermingled with some form of mythology. Jonathan stretched his neck to find Will stumbling towards him, his drink sloshing onto the wooden floor. Just as he was about to collapse drunkenly onto the one of the bartenders, a pretty girl named Maureen, Jonathan caught him midway. As Will struggled to gain balance, Jonathan winked humorously at the girl and lifted Will up. He sat his friend down, who was giggling like a school-girl, and snapped his fingers to grab his attention.

"Will, WILL! Yes, well, I'm off now, I'll be back at your flat later on, I think I'll take a walk down to the shore. Is that alright with you old boy?"

Will let out a great roar of laughter, his attention was completely elsewhere. He grabbed his stomach and continued to guffaw hysterically. Jonathan stared at him sardonically for a moment, bemusement and seriousness crouching in his eye.

"Right then. Well… I'm off, good luck getting home; I'll have one of the gents to take you to your flat."

This did not deter Will from his out of placed laughter. Jonathan clapped one the side of his friend's arm in farewell and asked one of the few sober men to take care of Will. He tipped his head in respect to the kind men still sharing stories at the poker table, occasionally singing an old ballad of some sort.

When Jonathan finally escaped the smoky room into the cool night breeze, he sighed in relief. The midnight sky wore a cloak of blackness, with a hint of the darkest of blues creeping into the distance. He rested his frame against the grey brick of the pub, the laughter inside drifting away as the stars of the surprisingly clear sky winked at him in silent reign. He moved away, walking across the cobblestone street where a railing across the line of buildings seemed to guard the ocean shore. Jonathan jogged across the road, grabbed the fenced thigh-high railing and swung himself over. However he was still a Carnahan, so of course his leap was far from graceful as he ended up on the beach with his back pressed to the sandy ground and groaning in this accustomed feeling of clumsiness. Jonathan lifted himself from the ground, not bothering to swipe the sand off his pants. He breathed the sharp taste of the ocean. The sea itself was as black as the sky above it, except for the twinkles of white serenity that peeked upon the tips of child-like waves. It looked like it was trying to cling to the sky, but it could not catch the running night. The sand itself still shone a bright colour and with hands stuffed into pockets and pant legs rolled up, Jonathan began to walk along the shore. The waves lapped at his feet as his footprints engraved themselves in the ever disappearing wet sand. With his pocketed hands he wrapped his flimsy jacket closer to him, walking further and further away from the tiny harbour village. Though he was surrounded by the utmost beauty and serenity, his mind was a blank. His body was invisible to the sting of the wind. Jonathan was a wallflower to this canvas of nature's soul of beauty.

As he walked even further, he didn't take notice of the group of small rocky caves outlined in the distance, the waves only slightly tickling the rocks closer to the edge. Jonathan did, however, notice the scream emanating from the angular stones. His head snapped up, the scream piercing his heart. His feet reacted faster then his head, as he began to run towards the origin of the yell. When Jonathan finally arrived to small cluster of caves, he could hear the muffled noises of a woman, and fear for her safety erupted when he heard the grunting chuckles of male voices. He crept closer, picking up a soaked log encaged in seaweed. He crouched low, and peered inside. Jonathan could make out the figures of at least three people. Two of them were men, large men he noticed with a disgruntled grimace. The third figure was being pushed to the ground, her arms pinned by one of the men. Jonathan couldn't make out a face, but that didn't even matter as anger surged through his body. He pressed onward, hoping to make a surprise attack. The cave was dark, but there was still enough light from the moon to make out the figures. Jonathan lifted up the log, and swung at one of the heads with all his might. He heard the sickening crack of impact, but unfortunately this did little to help the situation. The man fell down, but was not unconscious. Both of the men's heads swung around in shock. However one look at the stature of the intruder, their shock turned to anger. The girl, released from her captors, scrambled up to the nearest ledge, pressing her back to the creeping shadows.

"Leave her the bloody hell alone!" Jonathan's voice was surprisingly strong with anger with this statement.

The two men looked at each other in surprise. The taller one crossed his arms in disgust.

"Well, well. What do we have here? A brit! Aye, a curious brit at that. You interrupted our bout of fun, didn't you boy? Now Liam, what should we do to this pitiful lad?"

The other bearded man, softly touching the blood streaming from his head, glared at Jonathan with pure hatred.

"No one will ever find your body, laddie." He answered, smiling deviously.

Jonathan was instantly pinned to the wall, however pure instinct and some lessons from Rick (and embarrassingly enough from his sister) forced Jonathan to kick the man Liam in the crotch, elbowed him in the stomach, hit him in the forehead with his own head (which Jonathan he would comment later saying hurt like a bitch), pick up the log and swing it again at Liam's head. This time it did work, and the bearded man fell down in an unconscious heap. However Jonathan did not have time to celebrate, although amazed at what he just did. All he felt was the sharp pain emanating from his leg as the taller man shoved a thick knife that seemed to appear out of nowhere into Jonathan's leg. A fist swung towards his neck, and all Jonathan saw before falling into a pit of darkness was a dark figure in the corner of the cave, her body pressed to the wall breathing heavily, and he all wondered was what her name could possible be.

**………**

The first thing Jonathan awoke to was a blinding light, forcing him to cringe away and shut his eyes tightly. The next thing he noticed, after getting used to the harsh sunlight, was a blanket of wispy red hair, the colour of a dying sun. Strands of it had strayed, reaching towards the sunlight and giving it a halo of glowing light around each strand of angelic hair. Jonathan's gaze traveled downward, and his heart stopped. It wasn't her beauty that affected him so; it was the mere presence of HER. He knew in his heart that whatever it was that he was looking for, he found it. For once in his life, Jonathan felt completed. What lay before his astonished eyes was a young girl, still in her twenties. She lay sleeping on a wicker chair in front a large, circular window, her body illuminated by the rising day. Her knees were curled up towards hers, and her pale blue dress was darkened in the silhouette of the towering window. Her head was leaning against the scratched glass, her eyes facing downwards like a statue of a Greek goddess. He could tell that her eyes, though gently resting, were most likely wide, yet curved every so exotically in the corners. This Queen Mab presented a graceful, dignified Roman nose, perfectly straight and, well, he thought, plainly perfect. Her cheekbones slanted with a shadow of an arch, and Jonathan's heart nearly shut down when his eyes finally rested on her lips. They were like bow and arrow lips, painted by Cupid himself. A tiny, barely noticeable dent laid right smack in the middle of her lower lip, as though kissed by a fairy. She was the Fairy Queen, Jonathan thought. Her hair of delicate red lay twisted in a knotted braid which rested upon her shoulder, strands escaping the woven lace. However his awed examination of this mysterious angel did not last long, because before long she awoke with a startled glance, her eyes full of fear. Jonathan nearly gasped at the sight of her eyes, the perfect mixture of the stormiest of blue and the palest of ocean grey clashing in perfect harmony. When they finally locked eyes, Jonathan knew what love was like. He finally understood what the commotion between his sister and Rick was all about.

Her eyes were full of fear, as though waking to a horrible nightmare, but when she looked over at Jonathan, the sadness and pain resided, and warmth reigned. Jonathan was lying on a small bed, wrapped in sheets. The girl stretched comfortably and jumped off the chair, smiling warmly at him.

"Good morning, lad, how are you feeling today?"

It was exactly at that moment that everything that had occurred the night before surfaced in his mind, and the pain of the knife attack surged its deadly hate in his leg. Jonathan shot up like an arrow, and within a mille-second had swiped the sheets off his body. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and his thin body was still slightly soaked from the pain of the night before. His leg was wound up in somewhat of greenish gauze, wrapped tightly around his wound. But the thing that Jonathan noticed was what he was wearing under the sheets. He was wearing boxers, but they were not his own. He glanced accusingly at the girl, although tremendously amused by the blush that swept furiously upon her face.

"Don't be daft, lad. I dinna see anything. I got me mam to change you last night; you had blood all over your clothing. And in the name of Saint Joseph, what are you even thinking moving around like that? You'll tear the stitching."

Jonathan merely stared at her, still entranced. Her voice was lyrical and had a sweet, ancient lilt to it. It was as though sung by sirens from long ago. Or in her case, maybe Selkies, but he couldn't recall any legends of singing humans/seals. The woman was obviously aware that he was staring intensely at her, but did her best to not notice, focusing instead on starting a fire at the hearth in the corner of a very quaint room.

"What's your name?" asked Jonathan suddenly.

The woman glanced at him for a moment before finally starting a flame.

"My name is Danu. Don't you want to know what happened last night?"

Jonathan pondered on her name for awhile before responding.

"No. That's a beautiful name, where does it come from?"

Danu stared at him in disbelief.

"You got stabbed last night, lad, and you can't tell me you dinna care!"

Jonathan shrugged. The woman rolled her eyes.

"You Englishmen are not always right in the head, me mam says. Me name comes from Irish mythology, the legend of the people of Tuatha Dé Danann. They believed in a goddess named Danu, and they were also called People of Danu. That is where I got me name."

She sat herself onto the bed and carefully lifted his aching leg onto her lap to check the bandages.

"But even if ye don't care, I'll tell you what happened last night. I was collecting shells late last night, when those two drunkards came by. They woulda done something awful if you hadn't stopped them. When that man stabbed you, he got scared and ran away. You were shaking like a newborn lamb, I must say, but didn't even whimper. I dragged you up the shore, which by the way was not at all an easy thing to do you heavy oak, and brought you here. Me mam and the doctor fixed you up, but I've been here most of the night."

Danu began to slowly unwrap the bandages, her touch electrifying to his skin. Jonathan swallowed and tensed up at the sharp pains.

"Why are the bandages green?" He asked hesitantly.

Danu smiled devilishly at him before getting off the bed and reaching for a basket near the door. She pulled out slimy seaweed and folded it on a pipe overhead the burning fire. Jonathan stared in disgust.

"God, you wrapped me up in seaweed?"

The woman swatted his head playfully.

"Seaweed makes an excellent source of healing power, I just need to boil it and dry it to get rid of the salt, otherwise that'd be painful as hell."

Jonathan grimaced. He looked around the room as she began to wrap some dried seaweed around his inflamed leg. The room sported wooden, scratched floors, and warmth emanated from the entire room. Quaint was the only word to describe it.

"Where am I?" He questioned wondrously.

Danu tightened the gauze for pressure, ignoring Jonathan's hiss of agony.

"Me mam owns a beautiful inn near the sea, which you can take a wild guess and say that you're in it. The wound will give you a scar, but you will be able to walk again. Soon you will be able to walk over to this window, and see the ocean for yourself. This is my favourite room in the whole Inn. It's beautiful, is it not?"

However when Jonathan agreed, he only had eyes for her. It suddenly hit him what she had done for him.

"Thank you." He said quietly. "Thank you for helping me."

Danu's eyes darkened with passionate intensity as she crouched down and took his hand into her pale alabaster palms.

"You did a great favour for me. I don't think I can ever repay you." Her eyes began to well up with the thought of what could have happened.

Jonathan was in heaven within her cool touch. He looked at her almost lovingly before speaking.

"My name is Jonathan, by the way. Jonathan Carnahan. I'm from London."

A vixen smile appeared on Danu's fairy face as she got up and walked towards the door. Just when she was about to walk out, she turn and gave him a sly smile.

"Aye, I know. I stole your wallet."

With a flirty smile and a devilish wink, she left the room eloquently leaving a pale, half-naked Englishmen staring open-mouthed at the door all the while wrapped in seaweed. It was an image Danu chose to keep forever.

**………..**

**The Return to The Garbage Pile**

Jonathan staggered up from his makeshift resting place and began to stumble carefully through the streets of London. His prime objective was to now make it home, or if anyone he knew happened to see him trudging by and took him home with them.

In truth, Jonathan was elated. Somehow, through the thicket of his clumsiness and normally drunken self, he was able to win the heart of this beautiful Irish maiden. Danu would never see him as a brave knight in shining armour, or as a strong warrior, but she loved him still. He brought her humour in her sad life, and made her laugh from the very depths of her soul. He broke her shell, and for that she proclaimed her love for him. The day he left for England, he proposed marriage to her. It wasn't even something to consider, they were meant for one another. They brought purpose for one another. It was just another completion. Currently Danu was still in Ireland, doing her best to say goodbye to her sheltered life and more importantly to her mother. They decided to live in England; because it was much more dangerous for a British man living in Ireland then it would be for an Irish woman to live in England. They discovered their love in Ireland, but now it was time to expand their love in England. However there was one condition to the engagement, Danu forced him to promise to give up the drink. And gambling. And women. And everything from his life before her. However Jonathan was more then willing to do so. This one drunken night was an ode to the life he was leaving behind, his makeshift bachelor party.

Jonathan continued along the shadowed streets, tripping every so often in an attempt to kick away pebbles. He saw his flat appear a short distance away, but his thoughts were on Danu. It was always Danu.

* * *

_(A/N. Sorry it was so long, and sorry I didn't expand too much with their love. I wanted to do that when I when into Danu's perspective of things. I didn't update for a while because I had to work all bloody week. I quit, and then they give me a raise. Oh by the way, Queen Mab is supposed to be Queen of the fairies, apparently in some stories. My biggest concern with this story is that I have so many viewpoints I feel as though I'm abandoning my cliffhangers, oh well, I've got some catching up to do.)_

**To My Reviewers**

**Lucky Fannah, a.k.a johnnycarnahan: **Lol, I'm happy you enjoyed the chapter, I had fun writing it. I can tell that you're a Jonathan lover, so I apologize for this chapter. It was rather rushed and I'm finding it difficult to depict his character. But I'll figure it somehow. (I do wish that I could've written more with Danu and Jonathan, but I way too much for this chapter as it is. Thank you again for the review!

**Eviefan:** Thank you soooo much for the review. Alex is so easy to write about, his character in the movie is priceless. I just turn him into the cynical troublemaker, and he's great like that. I apologize for all the cliffhangers, its hard to write wrap them up when I have so many perspectives to write about. I hope that you won't get to bored, lol. Oh, and I guess you'll have to wait and see about the Camp Medjai, but I'll explain who the men really are soon.

**Dawn1: **A hundred thanks for the review. I absolutely LOVE getting them. As I was telling Eviefan, I apologize about the cliffhangers. I'm finding it difficult to wrap them up with so many character techniques I want to explore. But I appreciate the insight. I also appreciate your comment on Alex; those types of reviews make me very happy indeed, lol. Although he does see a bit young to be the sarcastic character. It's a character trait that my adult brothers would do.


	6. Hung Through a Pale Moon

**Chapter 4: Hung through a Pale Moon**

"She is the one."

Caoimhe clutched her daughter in protective fear as she stared wild-eyed at the strange man. Bearded men appeared behind their leader, swords drawn in reproachful silence. They stood in silent stance, an illusion of relaxation but no one could dismiss the flexing of their muscles as they waited in tense seconds for their orders. Sorcha backed up beside her mother, her eyes swirling as though a storm were brewing; the iris consumed with breached anger and fright. It seemed like hours that they stared at one another, challenging each other with their quiet threats. Caoimhe's rumpled skirt swirled suddenly as her arm swung out to the wooden table to grab the nearest knife, only to be interrupted as the stranger slammed her arm against the table and he pushed her slim figure violently up against the thatched cabin. He pressed his body against hers to restrict her motions and leaned his face up close to her, his breath tickling her nose.

"Try that again, and you will sorely regret it."

Caoimhe struggled to catch her breath, all the while staring down at him in dawning horror.

"Who are you?" she whispered in a choked voice, her eyes brimming with confusion.

The leader of the group barely had time to respond when the sudden eruption of metal against skull imprinted itself into the silent dread of the room. The man immediately released his hold on Caoimhe and cried out in pain as he swung around, clutching the swelling on his head. All he saw was a fiery girl, her face a mask of fury, her knuckles white from gripping the iron pot. His men instantly took hold on her, clutching her arms as they tried to steady her flailing body. However Sorcha would not give up so easily, evidence from the upcoming outcries as she kicked one man in the leg, the other was, unfortunately for him, granted a short reprieve of his manhood as the young girl proved she was no shirking violet. She was still, however, a young child, and was quickly restrained. The leader stared in surprise at her independent gall, and could not resist a small smile tugging at his ragged lips.

"Tough as well, all the better I suppose." He whispered, more to himself then anyone else.

The man stroked the shadow of beard that was silhouetted along his face, easily ignoring the fading pain that consumed his head. No real damage, but he was well aware of the upcoming migraine he was sure to have. His leather boots barely made a sound as he softly treaded over to her, his dark eyes burning through her skull. His musky scent of sweat and blood evaded her senses as he leaned in, hate consuming her. He smiled softly at her scowl and tugging arms, she was definitely the right choice. His black eyes locked onto hers gently, mirth mixed with seriousness evading the landscapes of his iris. His voice was rough, accented slightly as he spoke in his broken version of the language of the Fir Bolg.

"Who might you be, little one? Are you not the daughter of Danu? Or are you the offspring of the Bolgs?"

The answer in return was a swift spray of spit into his face. Smiling at her audacity, he retrieved a piece of cloth and wiped it roughly over his face.

"More animal then human I should say," as he pocketed the makeshift handkerchief, "but no worries, my men will make you a lady yet. In time though, all in good time."

Silence descended the room; Caoimhe trembled with anger in the corner of the room all the while being restrained by one leather-vested pockmarked man. The leader reached to his side and swiftly revealed from his leather sheath a glinting dagger, carved with innumerable designs crisscrossing both the handle and the metal blade. The fading light from the fire captured the metal in its entirety, its reflection illuminating the horrible reality. The side of the dagger stroked along Sorcha's pale skin, scraping ever so softly along each invisible hair. The unmistakeable swallow was caught along the edge of this dagger, pausing time. He leaned in closer, the knife twisting with his movement.

"I will not ask you again, my dear. What is your name?"

The girl clenched her jaw and stared murderously at him, her eyes blazing. It was fitting, due to the nature of her wild mane of red hair.

"My name is Sorcha, though I hardly see what business it is to a cretin such as yourself."

Her name drifted gently along the recesses of his mind as he pondered softly upon its true meaning. Yes, his master would be pleased with her; of course he and his men would undoubtedly have to tame her.

"A name for a true queen, no doubt, as you will soon enough be."

Sorcha's eyes narrowed in confusion, her mind racing with his reply. She drifted her eyes to her mother; however Caoimhe's face was a mirror of her own confused stoniness. They barely had time to ponder on his response, as the door burst open as though the very gates of heaven had been picked through.

The door crashed open revealing five brawny shadows, their bulky figures strong and true, entwined in the rolling, dark clouds of evening.

"Papa!" Sorcha cried out in pure relief, as chaos suddenly erupted throughout the room.

The mysterious man swung behind Sorcha and clutched her neck with his arm, his knife still dangerously in plain sight. Caoimhe released a startled cry as the man who restrained her pushed her into the arms of a taller brute so that he could retrieve his weapon. However the glistening sword was immediately thrown to the floor as a bulky figure crashed into him, throwing punches left and right. The other figures in the doorway leaped forward, picking a man and taking aim. They were sailors, but fighters at heart. The table broke as one of the men flew through the air and crashed painfully into its wooden haunches. Sorcha's father, Coinneach, held murder in his stormy ocean eyes. His brawny figure was surprisingly agile and swift as he suddenly leaned down and whisked a simple net-cutters knife from his roped boot, his eyes narrowing in at the man restraining his wife. Leaping smoothly over the fire-pit Coinneach rushed to his wife's side. He gave the man no chance for defence as his knife plunged into his neck. The man slumped silently against the wall, motionless. Chaos was sprinting throughout the room as Coinneach pushed Caoimhe over to the side to glimpse his daughter's captor. The leader caught Coinneach's deathly glare and decided for once and for all to put an end to this madness.

"Stop!"

Though he may have anticipated silence, all he received was ignored ears. Coinneach swung himself over to the where his daughter was trying to struggle out of her bonds, and raised his knife pointedly in the air.

"Let her go, or your men will pay the price."

Silence descended the room as though a mist were settling over the moors. The leader gave a quirked smile of disbelief at this fishermen's gall. Amazing how these mere men of the ocean could fight with equal strength to his own trained soldiers. He looked at the figure lying motionless on the scratched wooden floor, and sighed with restrained impatience.

"I cannot release her. She is bound to my master by decree. She must come with me and my men where she will spend the rest of her days living in splendour."

Coinneach was barely listening, his knuckles turning white against the handle of his blade.

"Get away from her!"

The leader clenched his jaw in lingering impatience.

"I cannot, she is bound by decree…"

Sorcha's father stormed up to him, halting only when he saw the slight pressure of the stranger's blade to his daughter's neck.

"What are you talking about? What decree? Who are you?"

The man stared stoic at him, his dark eyes a shield of harsh reality.

"I am Lykaois, commander of the third cavalry to the Greek ambassador of foreign affairs. More specifically, I serve the descendants of the family you are more acquainted to knowing as 'Lerios'. My latest assignment is to come to receive the Fir Bolg's payment to the debt they owe the family from many generations ago."

No sound could imperfect the still silence of the room. All the men in the room straightened up in silent reverie. Coinneach's face paled visibly through the limited vision of the room. He knew.

"I want everyone out right now. I have something to discuss with this… commander."

Caoimhe's face was drawn into shock.

"But Coinneach, how can you just…"

"Leave, please, leave now." Her husband's head snapped towards her, controlled impatience taking control of his firm, hardened eyes.

Lykaois softly pushed Sorcha into the arms of one of his men, vaguely surprised at the lack of struggle. Without one more word the small crowd began to disperse into the dying day, glancing behind them at the two remaining figures staring intently at one another, entombed in sparkles of fading embers.

* * *

"Mama, what are they talking about? Why is father even listening to that, that…?" 

The answer Sorcha eventually received was a coarse, dirt-stained finger pressed for silence against her rosy lips. It was the tall, dark-eyed man restraining her. His mouth whispered for silence as a semi-circle was formed over by the wood-pile near the front entrance of the cottage. Everyone sat down either on the dew-kissed grass or a fallen log, staring venomously at one another. Silence descended slowly, all ears straining to catch a glimpse of what was being said inside, but the only sound they received was the faint cry of the gulls in the distance. The waves were lapping ominously against the silky sheen of sand, oblivious to the controlled hate erupting up ahead. Sorcha's mother stared dangerously at the man holding her daughter.

"Why must you hold her down, let her go, we are not going to attack you while my husband is in there."

The man stared directly at her, not even a flicker of emotion tainting his stoic face.

"Orders are orders, and I will follow them until my duties are finished."

Caoimhe narrowed her eyes slightly.

"Duties? You call kidnapping a young girl, restraining two unarmed women, barging in violently, threatening my daughter… duties?"

If in fact the man felt slightly guilty at this statement, he definitely did not reveal it.

"You will know soon enough why we have come for you daughter."

Caoimhe stood up suddenly, prepared to lunge angrily at this inconsiderable brute.

"Then why can't you tell me now, if you know? Save your commander's breath, and tell us first why you have come and created this havoc upon us."

The man stared at her for a moment, blinking, and then shifted his head slightly to give a simple nod to one of the bearded men sitting nearby. The man had a full beard, and was dark and pockmarked. His eyes, however, concealed great wisdom, shimmering softly in his hidden irises. He straightened himself from the fallen log he had been resting on, and stared softly at Caoimhe, his shoulders hunched over.

"My name is Adrastos, and I am a son from the family of Lerios."

"But who is Lerios! What is the importance of this family, and what do they have to do with Sorcha?"

His dark eyes held the woman's for a moment, willing her into silence.

"Many, many generations ago, the Fir Bolg was slaves to the Greeks. I'm sure this you have known, as it has been written in many of your legends. They were subjected to pain and torture by many of the wealthy families. Eventually, your people had had enough. They made a deal with one of the slave-trader families, a family that went by the name Lerios."

The Fir Bolg fishermen around the circle clenched their fists in remembrance of the tales told to them by their ancestors, shocked to find out that the legends were in fact truth.

"The father of the Lerios household agreed to the slave's requests, that they be granted their freedom, on one condition. If at all the Lerios' need aid, and then the Fir Bolg would, without hesitation, offer their services. It was thought that we would need your people's help in impending wars, but in fact we require your help in other ways. We, Greece, are excellent allies with a faraway land called Egypt. Our friendship, however, is a shaky one, so we must do what we can to appease their great leader, their pharaoh."

Sorcha lifted her head softly, listening intently.

"Egypt? Where is this place?"

Adrastos snapped his head towards her, his eyes softening at her question.

Far to the south, many thousands of miles from here, lay the rolling cliffs of sand and sun. It is called the desert, and it is as beautiful as the piles of gold that lay at the Pharaoh's feet, but just as deadly. The sun strikes this golden sea and sets it on fire, scorching those who come unprepared to a thirsty death. Envision the Great Pyramid, a dimensional triangle if you can see it, hovering majestically above all else. It is encased in highly polished, smooth white limestone and capped by a perfect pyramid of onyx, blinding all those that gaze upon it. The pyramids are the resting places of the great Pharaoh's, and they are in perfect alignment with the stars in the sky."

Silence met Adrastos' speech, and he ducked his head in embarrassment, going too far. Sorcha, however, gazed at him in entrancement, awed by his speech. He looked up hesitantly, somewhat resistant in continuing on.

"Their great leader, the Pharaoh, has heard legends of a pale-skinned race, eyes that that can be the colour of forest, the Nile, and even the sky where the Gods they worship rest. He has heard of women whose hair can be the colour of the fertile soil, colour of their sun-god Ra, and the colour of a setting sun."

At that last phrase Adrastos could not resist a glance to where Sorcha stared at him, begging him with her eyes to continue on.

"This great King has requested another wife. He has already married two of his sister's, and has been born enough sons, but he is interested in another wife. He has been looking forward to perhaps marrying a legend, these women from the North. The Pharaoh has requested that the Greeks undertake the task of bringing a woman down to Egypt, to be his next Queen. The instant my commander saw your daughter; he knew she was the perfect candidate."

In Sorcha's opinion, even the cry of the sea gulls ceased in shocked silence. As hard to believe that Caoimhe's jaw could drop any further, it nearly hit the ground. The sailors eyes widened in understanding, and all Sorcha could do was stare in surprise at Adrastos. Though it seemed as if everyone's voices ceased to exist, her mother was not going to be silenced as she stood and sputtered for a moment.

"I, I, now listen here you. I am her mother, she is my daughter and she is my responsibility. I refuse to let you… hooligans to come and take her away from me. Sorcha is my baby, and I'll be damned before I'll let you marry her off to some sick narcissist who is already wed to two of his sisters! I don't think so! Besides, Sorcha is much too young to wed, how could you do that to a child?"

He interrupted her for a split-second.

"The journey to Egypt will take many years; Sorcha will be more then of a marriageable age by then."

"I don't care! You will not take her away!"

Adrastos sighed, standing up slowly, giving Sorcha a pitiful stare before turning to her mother. However he didn't even get a chance to speak before the door to the cottage softly opened. Everyone stood up sharply, placing their hands over their weapons in guarded silence. Lykaois stepped out of the door, his hawk-eyed gazed taking in every detail. He spoke softly to the man restraining Sorcha.

"Let her go."

Without a second thought Sorcha was pushed into the arms of her mother, who sobbed thankfully into her daughter's hair, stroking the auburn strands. She whispered softly into Sorcha's ears, comforting words that seeped in like the tide.

"Don't worry, dear heart, your father will never let anyone take you away."

Lykaois placed the dreaded gilded knife back into its sheave before speaking to his soldiers.

"We must leave now, we will return in a day."

With that he spun on his heels and began the long trek back into the woods, his men silently striding behind him, taking their terror with them. Caoimhe paled visibly and clutched at her daughter's shoulders. Coinneach was in the doorway, resting sadly to the side. He looked as though he just aged a lifetime, and his face was an ashen grey. His wife turned to him, realizing the truth. He had just given their daughter away.

"You bastard," she seethed venomously, "how could you? How could you?"

Without a thought she flew into a rage towards Coinneach, pounding her fists against his woollen vest and grimy work shirt, sobbing angrily. He grabbed her elbows to try to steady her, but Caoimhe's anger was too much to bear as she sunk to the ground, still sobbing uncontrollably and weakly punching her husband in his brawny chest. He sank to the ground with her, tears streaming down his ashen face as he tried to console her, hugging her tightly to his chest. They didn't notice Sorcha, standing tall on the cliff, staring out into the ocean. Her red hair flickered in the breeze, but she didn't notice. The waves now crashed furiously against the shore, pounding the water into a rhythm, sadly aware that they were losing a daughter of the Danu.

_The ocean, she knew, was crying as well._

* * *

**_I sincerely apologize for the wait, my computer crashed completely (seriously) and then it was a while before I could buy a new one. But here it is. So thanks to my awesome reviewers. Here are the reviewers for chapter 5._**

**_chugirl2526: thanks you so much for the review. I'm planning on both guys loving the girl, but she is kinda torn. It is always appreciative to receive a review, good or bad, so thanks, lol. _**

**_Dawn1: hello again, thanks for being so extremely patient. I really appreciate the comments, and, well, it got done eventually, lol. Thanks again, I do look forward to reading your comments. _**


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